THE THRILLING STORY OF SIX MEN WITH
A STRANGE MISSION. THEY MUST FOLLOW A DANGER TRAIL AND
THEIR ONLY GUIDE IS AN UNKNOWN VOICE!

A VOICE FROM
NOWHERE.

The London Amateur Athletics Association Championships were being held
at the White City Stadium, on a perfect July afternoon. The great crowd was hushed
as the runners lined up for the 880 yards race. All except one, an
Australian, were British, so there was not much doubt as to where the title
would go, but the eyes of the knowledgeable ones were on number 3, a lean
rangy man a little older than the other competitors. He wore glasses, but it
was not this which had attracted the attention of the crowd. In spite of the
fact that he was not yet thirty, he was Dr John Tennant, one of the world’s
leading experts in tropical diseases, and the discoverer of an entirely new
treatment for malaria.The
announcements had been made. The runners were on their marks in readiness for
the crack of the pistol. It was one of the tense moments that John Tennant
enjoyed. It was such a complete contrast to his life in laboratory or
consulting-room.

Now
he was not battling with germs, but with well trained men who would strain
every nerve and sinew to reach the tape before him. The “ready” signal came,
and Horton, of Achilles Club, bounded from his mark and was twenty yards away
before he realised that the race had not begun. It was a false start. They were
on their marks for the second time and it was then that Dr John Tennant heard a
voice saying: “Don’t run, Doctor Tennant! You are wanted—something much more
important. Come to Manaos! Come to Manaos! Many lives depend on it!” The young
doctor who had been concentrating on getting off his mark as quickly as
possible, found himself glancing round to see who had spoken to him. It was
certainly not Watkins, of the London A.C., who was next to him. It flashed
through his mind that the voice came from right inside his ear, almost as
though he had been holding a telephone to his head. “Stop, Tennant! Don’t waste
time,” came the imperative voice from somewhere within range of Dr Tennant’s
consciousness. “You are endangering the lives of thousands every minute you
delay. Go to Manaos, in Brazil!”
Bang! The starter’s gun cracked and everyone except John Tennant leapt forward
as though hurled from a spring-board. The race was on—except for John Tennant.
He had straightened up and was listening to that mysterious voice which seemed
to come from nowhere: “You are wanted in South America. John
Tennant! Go to Manaos. The life of the true people depends on it. Hurry!” The
other runners were fifty yards down the track. A buzz of excitement ran through
the crowd when they saw who had been left behind. Officials were crowding
round. Jim Warder, Tennant’s best friend, ran over and gripped him by the arm.
“Anything wrong, John? What happened? Why didn’t you start?” he gasped. John
Tennant drew a hand across his eyes. Coolly and collectively he was considering
his condition. He had no fever, he felt no sign of illness, and his head was
quite clear, yet as sure as he was at the WhiteCity he
heard that voice. He knew that it had not been his imagination. “I’m not
running today,” said John Tennant. “Let’s get back to the dressing-room.” He
saw that the Achilles man was winning. The crowd was so intent on the runners
that nobody saw the two men walk quickly off the track and into the tunnel to
the dressing-room. Even the officials were needed elsewhere and had no time to
ask for an explanation of the amazing behaviour of the man who had been
expected to win the race. “What on earth was the matter?” asked Jim Warder,
when they were in the dressing-room. “Did you suddenly feel faint?” “Something
like that,” agreed Tennant, as he reached for his clothes. “Where is Manaos? It
is somewhere in Brazil, isn’t
it?” “What? Eh—what did you say?” Warder stared at him as though he feared for
his friend’s sanity. “What’s that got to do with you not running? Are you sure
you feel all right?” “Of course I’m all right!” snapped the doctor, as he
hurried into his clothes. “Let’s me get out of here before the others come
back. Is Manaos in Brazil?”
“Y-yes, I’m sure it is. It’s somewhere up the Amazon—a long way up the Amazon
River. It’s a town in the jungle—a city surrounded by
jungle. I’ve read about it, and—” “How does one get there?” asked the man who
had discovered a new cure for malaria. “Come on, let’s go out to my car. We’ll
call at a travel agency. Something has turned up. I’ve been intending to take a
holiday. Maybe I’ll go to Manaos.” In the evening papers it was said that Dr
John Tennant had refused to give any explanation of his behaviour at the WhiteCity that
afternoon.

ON SAFARI.

It
was the end of the road, but there was a single track which ran almost to the
mountains of the moon, in Uganda. It
was here that hunters had to leave the comfort of their jeeps and rely on their
own two feet to take them through the jungle. There were four jeeps laden with
equipment, camping kit and supplies for there were five wealthy Americans on
this safari, and money had been no object to them. That was why they had hired
Robert MacDonald, the finest hunter in Africa. He
was to guide them to the big game which they wished to shoot, and to protect
them against the hazards of the journey. It was he who had hired the fifty
native porters who waited to carry the contents of the jeeps the rest of the
way. “This is going to take some time,” said Robert MacDonald to Clive Beecham,
the oldest and most sensible member of the party. “There is no need for you all
to stand around here in the sun. About half a mile from here there are the OringaFalls. I
suggest that you take a stroll through the forest and have a look whilst I get
the porters under way. Kilwa will show you the way. Leave everything just as it
is and I will attend to it.” He was a short, thickset man with a face the
colour of mahogany. To look at him in his shabby shorts and shirt nobody would
have guesses that he was acknowledged as the greatest hunter in all Africa. To
him the jungle was an open book, and he knew the animals which lived there
better than he knew people. In addition to which he was rated as one of the
three best shots in the world. Such was his reputation in East
Africa that the Americans had considered themselves very
lucky to be able to hire him. “Sure we’ll do that!” drawled Beecham. “I’ll take
my cine-camera.” He herded the others into the shade, and Kilwa in spotless
white, pointed out the track that they were to take. They could already hear
the sound of the falls. Robert MacDonald waited until they had gone, then
mopped his forehead. He was glad that he had got rid of his clients for a
while. It was always a noisy, complicated business unloading from jeeps on to
the heads of native porters. He needed a cool head and no distractions. “Now,
Nkala,” he said to the head man, “we will get that jeep unloaded first.” It
contained the personal baggage of the five sportsmen, and privately, MacDonald
considered they had brought enough for twenty. But he was being paid £500 per
head on condition they got a lion and an elephant apiece. He did not argue
about hiring a few extra porters. The natives swarmed over the jeep, lifting
out the expensive pigskin cases. Robert MacDonald stepped back into the shade
and reached for his pipe. It was then that something said in his ear: “Don’t
waste time here, MacDonald! You’re wanted in Brazil—in
Manaos—the most important safari you’ll ever be on. Come to Manaos. Many lives
depend on it.” The white hunter turned sharply, expecting to find someone
beside him, but there was no one near him. All the porters were gathered round
the jeep, and his clients had disappeared from view. Yet the voice had been
clear enough. MacDonald rubbed his chin. “Have I been in the sun too long?” he
wondered. “A nice thing if I go down with sunstroke for the first time in my
life!” “It is not sunstroke,” the same voice informed him. “I am calling you—to
Manaos in Brazil. You
can fly to Para.” “But what on
earth for?” asked the white hunter, then realised that he was talking to
himself. “The true people need you,” something told him. “There are others who
will need your aid to get to them. Will you waste time fulfilling the whims of
these rich idlers when you can save a nation by coming to Manaos?” A squabble
had broken out amongst the porters over the loads which each would carry.
Robert MacDonald dived into the fray to settle things. He could always handle
natives in the right way. He had a natural gift. Once more he dodged back into
the shade, and the voice said: “What are you waiting for? You have plenty of
money. You don’t need the money from these men. You don’t like any of them
except Beecham. Let them find their own lions and elephants. Take one of the
jeeps and return to Nairobi. You
are wanted in Manaos!” The white hunter took off his hat and again mopped his
forehead. He wondered if he ought to take some quinine, in case a fever was
coming on. Instead, he took a thermometer from its case and stuck it into his
mouth. He waited a minute then examined it. His temperature was normal. He had
no fever. “There is a plane to Cape Town from Nairobi at ten
tomorrow morning,” the voice told him. Robert MacDonald pulled on his hat more
firmly and walked back to the empty jeep in which the sportsmen had travelled.
He pressed the starter button and there was immediate response. It was as he
backed the jeep round that Nkala came running across to him, eyes wide with
alarm. “Bwana! Where do you go, Bwana?” he gasped. “Back to Nairobi!”
called MacDonald, as he engaged the gear and shot away down the road in the
direction from which they had come. He consoled himself with the thought that
the Americans had everything they needed. If they could not look after
themselves it was too bad, and in any case he had not yet received any payment
from them.

CARTIER QUITS.

A
Timber drive was under way in Quebec, in Canada. On
the GatineauRiver a raft
of over a thousand logs was approaching the dangerous Petawago Rapids. The crew
of lumberjacks were all experienced men, and were concentrating on preventing
the logs from piling up. If they remained stretched out in a long narrow
formation they would shoot the rapids without difficulty, but if they wedged
across the river they would jam together and choke themselves to a standstill.
That would mean using explosives to break the block, and a lot of valuable
timber would be lost. The red-shirted lumberjacks ran across the floating,
spinning logs with amazing skill. Armed with their long peavies, they were
whirled downriver. Their nailed boots gave them grip, but only their uncanny
sense of balance prevented them from being thrown into the river and crushed to
death by the timber. It was an expert specialized job, and most of the men were
French-Canadians. Cleverest of them all, and top man of the outfit, was little
Jacques Cartier. Only five feet tall, he was as strong as a lion and as agile as
a cat. He could do things that no other man dared attempt. He seemed to know
what the river currents were going to do in advance. There was nothing that he
did not know about rafts or canoes, and he was utterly fearless. Out in the
centre of the river something happened. Two logs came in contact with a sunken
rock, wedged, and others arrived on top of them. In a matter of moments there
was a pile of timber twenty feet high. “Cartier! Cartier! Where’s Cartier?”
arose the cry, and the little French-Canadian was seen running across the
river, stepping from one drifting log to another. He hardly ever walked. He
always ran. The blockage was mounting higher and higher. Jacques Cartier
studied it for a moment, then started to climb up it and thrust with his long peavy.
What he did nobody could see, but the big jam began to break up, and the logs
commenced to roll back into the river. Cartier went with them, leaping from one
to another to avoid being crushed, and occasionally pausing to give another
prod with his peavy. With a final crash and splash the blockage collapsed, and
the logs flowed on smoothly towards the top of the rapids. Jacques Cartier
stood on one floating log and seemed lost in thought. Something was happening
to him. A voice was speaking to him, yet there was nobody near him and the roar
of the falls should have drowned all voices. Yet he could distinctly hear the
words: “Stop this, Jacques Cartier, and go to South
America! Go to Manaos—you are needed! Many lives depend on
it. Only you can help. Come, please, Jacques Cartier!” The French-Canadian
looked around him. He was alone drifting swiftly on a log towards the top of
the rapids, over which many logs were already plunging. Normally, he would have
started across the other logs towards either bank long before this, but he was
so surprised by this mystery that he hesitated. “Come to Manaos!” repeated the
mysterious voice, which he now fancied came from within his own head. “It will
be to your advantage as well as the greatest adventure of your life. You will
not lose by it. Manaos—in Brazil. Come
quickly and you will meet others. Come quickly!” “Cartier! Cartier, look out!”
came the shouts from men farther back and along the bank, for they thought he
was going over the edge to certain death. The man they called King of the River
jerked his head up and became aware of his danger. He spun the log to one side
with a quick twist of his feet, and like a cat bounded on to another. The force
of his arrival carried it over against a third log, and in a moment he was on
this, but again only for a fraction of time. Running across the spinning logs,
he made a final leap on to the bank just as the raft was about to take the
final plunge. He stood there mopping his brow, and when his friends came
running up he was propping his peavy against a tree. He looked so strange that
someone said: “What’s wrong with you, Jacques? Feeling ill?” “I am all right,
but I quit!” snapped the French-Canadian, tightening his belt. “Quit!” they
stared at him aghast. “But—But—” “I quit! I go to Quebec!” said
Jacques Cartier. “You scared? Did you get scared out there?” asked somebody
else. Jacques Cartier looked at them coldly. “Mebbe I was, Mebbe I wasn’t, but
I go to Quebec and
then to Brazil!” he
grunted, as he turned away.

FROM THE FOUR CORNERS.

Dr
John Tennant stepped ashore at Manaos like a man in a dream. He still did not
know why he was there, or why he had chosen to take an Amazon cruise for his
holiday. He had discovered that there was an English steamship line which ran a
direct service to Para and up the mighty
Amazon and the River Negro as far as the amazing city that was Manaos. He had
booked a passage on that, but whereas most of the passengers had return
tickets, and intended to sleep aboard the vessel at Manaos. John Tennant had
only a single ticket. The heat was overpowering when he took a taxi to a hotel
in the centre of one of the strangest cities in the world. He knew by now that
although it was a modern city with paved roads, electric lights, buses, an
opera house, cathedral, cinemas, and everything else that a city can offer, it
had no communication with the outside world except by air or the river. There
were no roads or railways leading to Manaos. A mile outside, the dense jungle
shut it in on all sides. If a man walked three miles from the centre of the
city the chances were that he would never be seen again. Yet something—that
mysterious voice—had brought Dr John tenant all the way from England. Many
times he had told himself that he had imagined the call, but his trained
medical mind told him that this was not so. The voice had been real, and it had
been insistent. He was needed here in Manaos for some reason connected with the
fate of many people. The hotel was the only one suitable for a visitor like
himself, and he was not surprised to find it crowded, but what did surprise him
was to see a strange little man with a brown, Mongolian face at the reception
desk. He was no more than four-feet ten, very sturdy, and dressed in thick
garments totally unsuitable for the tropics. In broken English he was trying to
explain to the clerk that he had booked a room in the hotel, and that his name
was Tashi. “Senor Tashi!” muttered the clerk, whose English was very scanty.
“Senor Tashi!” He looked down his book, but the little Asiatic touched him on
the arm and exclaimed: “No, Senor Tashi—Me Sherpa Tashi!” Dr Tennant, who was
standing right behind him, had another look at the speaker, a surprised look
and saw that indeed he was one of that famous race of mountaineers who come from
Nepal, at
the foot of the Himalayas. “The
gentleman’s name is Tashi, without any Senor,” Tennant explained to the clerk,
and looked at the list of bookings. “Here you are, Tashi—booked from Karachi by
cable last month. “Yes, that is so, sir, thank you!” beamed the Sherpa. “My
English, she is not very good.” John Tennant introduced himself to the Sherpa,
who held out his hand, and they shook. A few moments later they were led to
their respective rooms, and Tennant noticed that the Sherpa carried all his belongings
in a ruck-sack on his back. “Why in the world should a man from the Himalayas be
here in the middle of Brazil?”
marvelled John Tennant, when his bags were carried up for him. Then he thought
to himself: “But why am I here? It’s just as strange.” After a bath to cool
himself down, he changed into clean clothing, then decided to see something of
the city. As the lift came to his floor for him, someone else came out of a
room at the other end of the corridor and called: “Wait, please! I’m coming
down.” He sprinted towards the lift, a short, thickset man with a brick-red
face. Tennant held the lift for him, and they grinned to one another. “You
British?” asked the doctor. “Yes, I’m from Africa,” said
the other, as the lift carried them downwards. “Name of MacDonald. Do you know
anything about this place?” “Nothing. I only came off the Orantic an hour ago.
I’m on holiday—” explained the doctor. “And I—” The man with the red face
frowned. “I hardly know why I’m here.” He looked at the visiting card which Tennant
had given him. “A medical man, eh? Just what I need! Do you believe in
telepathy?” The lift stopped at the ground floor and they got out into the
palm-shaped hall. A tall, lean, obvious American with horn-rimmed spectacles
and a Palm Beach suit
had just arrived and was signing in. “Telepathy, you mean communication between
minds?” said John Tennant. “I hardly know. There have been many examples of
people receiving messages from someone they knew far away.” “Yes, I know that,”
growled Robert MacDonald, as they watched the American’s baggage being taken to
the lift, “but have you ever heard of anyone fool enough to drop what they were
doing and bolt off to a country thousands of miles away just because they
fancied they had heard a voice calling them to come?” John Tennant became
rigid. He stared, and then burst out: “Yes, me! That’s why I’m here. I was at a
sports meeting in London when a
voice in my ear told me—almost commanded me—to come to Manaos. I was in need of
a holiday and came on a steamer.” “Remarkable!” exploded MacDonald. “The very
same thing happened to me in East Africa—in Uganda. I was
out in the jungle with some clients on safari when this voice told me to come
here!” They continued to stare at one another, then from behind them there
broke in a voice with an American accent. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could
not help overhearing what you were saying.” It was the American newcomer who
had passed on his way to the lift. “My name is Miles Greet, of New
York, and I had the same experience. I was
sitting in my Wall Street office one day when a voice ordered me to fly here.
I’ve just arrived. What’s it all about? It’s uncanny!” “Yes, it’s uncanny, but
there must be some reason for it,” replied Tennant. “I think we had better get
together somewhere and discuss this.” They moved into an inner lounge where the
shades had been drawn to keep out the hot sun. They thought they had the place
to themselves until they saw the Sherpa sitting in a corner. He looked lost and
miserable, but when he sighted John Tennant he smiled and came over. “Please,
Sahib,” he said, “nobody here speak my English. Can you please ask someone why
I am here? Who send for me all the way from Nepal?
Someone speak in my ear to come when I was half-way up mountain. Was it you!
Who send for me? Perhaps the Sahib find out for me.” They looked at him, then
at each other. It was the American who gripped the Sherpa by the elbow and led
him towards a table. “So you’re another of us! Come into the circle and let’s
talk this over. We’ve all had a ‘call’ to come here from different parts of the
world. Why?”

THE SIXTH MAN.

They
had discussed the amazing circumstances for half an hour without coming to any
conclusion, and Dr Tennant was in the middle of a scientific explanation of
telepathy when he broke off in the middle of a sentence. Once again he had
heard that mysterious voice in his ear or within his head. “You are in Manaos,”
said the voice, “but you are not all present. Two more are to come. There is a
man in the hotel called Cartier. Find him, and when the sixth man arrives I
will tell you where you are to go.” The voice stopped. John tenant looked up,
and saw that the other three were looking bewildered. “Sorry, I didn’t hear
what you were saying, Tennant,” burst out Robert MacDonald. “Fact is I heard
that voice again, and it said—” “That there was a man in the hotel called
Cartier and that we must find him!” interrupted Miles Greet. “Yes, so you heard
the voice message?” gasped the doctor. “Yes, Sahib, so did I, there is someone
still to come,” put in Sherpa Tashi. There was silence. This was stranger than
ever. Somewhere there was an unknown being who could send messages to them
wherever they were, either singly or collectively. They received these messages
as one received a wireless message. “And we are going to be told what we have
to do next,” carried on John Tennant. “The sooner all six of us are together
the better. Wait here. I’m going to inquire whether there is anyone called
cattier staying in the hotel.” He left them, and returned five minutes later
with a short cat-like little man with broad shoulders and crisp black hair. He
had bronzed skin and his clothing was that of a lumberjack. “Mr Jacques
Cartier, of Canada,
introduced the doctor. “He was in his room, wondering what to do next. He
arrived yesterday from Canada having
received a similar call to our own. There is not the slightest doubt that we
have been called together for some unusual reason, something connected with the
True People. Does anyone here know of these True People?” They all shook their
heads, and Cartier told how he had quitted his job in the Canadian forest and
spent all his savings on plane fares to Para and
thence to Manaos.“Yer’ much I would
like to know what happens next, m’sieurs!” he murmured. “It is strange. Me, I
am a river man, a lumberjack. Here we have a doctor, a hunter from Africa who
knows the jungle, and a professional mountaineer from the greatest range of
mountains in the world. Ver’ much I would like to know what you are, M’sieur?”
He looked at the American. Miles Greet grinned. “Well, I can’t claim to be any
good at anything much. I can shoot a bit, ride a bit, but nothing very good.
I’m not an expert like you others and not a skilled professional man. The only
claim I’ve got to being unusual is that I’m a millionaire. If any dough is
wanted for anything. I guess I can provide it!” It was useful to know that they
had large funds at their disposal if needed! As there were no sense in sitting
there idly they hired a car and drove round the city to see the sights. They
stopped at several places for refreshments and everywhere asked if anyone had
heard of a tribe or community called the True People. Nobody had heard of them.
It was nightfall when they got back to their hotel, and the first thing they
did was to inquire at the desk whether there was any unusual newcomer. They
were told that nobody had arrived at the hotel since Miles Greet, so they were
still without the sixth member of their party, and they had been told that
nothing would happen until he arrived. They dined together and Miles Greet
insisted on paying for everything. Afterwards, they went up to his suite, where
they sat on the balcony in the cool of the evening, overlooking the darkened
park below. The only sound they could hear was the rustling of the wind in the
trees, and the distant hoot of a steamer on the river. Miles Greet smoked a
cigar, and MacDonald a pipe. The others did not smoke. For the most part they
sat there in silence, a doctor from London, a
hunter from Africa, a mountaineer
from far Nepal, a
river-man from Canada, and a
millionaire from New York, all
drawn to this remote corner of the world by means which they did not
understand. “It seems obvious that we’re going to be asked to go somewhere or
do something,” suddenly said John Tennant. “It looks as though we’ve been
picked for our specialized knowledge, which means that the going will be pretty
tough. I for one am anxious for the fun to begin. I’d hate to think I came all
this way for nothing.” The others agreed. They were all eager to know what they
were going to be asked to do. They all felt certain that when the time came
they would receive further messages. The unknown being who had brought them
together from the four corners of the earth obviously had an intriguing task
for them and they were impatient to know what it was. Talk stopped again. Each
man felt that the less they talked, and the more they left their minds a blank,
the easier it would be for another message to come to them. It was a rustling
in the trees beyond the balcony that disturbed them. Some of these trees grew
to a great height, but only their outlines could be seen in the darkness. The
rustling grew louder, and branches creaked. Miles Greet looked somewhat
alarmed. “Sounds as though something’s swinging from tree to tree,” he
muttered. Before anyone could reply, something landed in the nearest tree, then
launched itself into the air directly for the balcony. There was the hard slap
of hands on the stout balcony rail, and as they leapt to their feet in alarm
they saw that the hands were large in size, deeply bronzed, and enormously
powerful. The hands gripped and heaved, and over the top of the rail came the
most powerfully built man they had ever seen. He was well over six feet in
height, with a massive torso, mighty limbs, and muscles which bulged under his
bronzed, satin-like skin every time he stirred. His face was the colour of
mahogany, although his eyes were blue, and his thick head of hair had been
bleached by tropical suns. The balcony creaked beneath his weight as he moved
towards them smiling. “I hope I didn’t frighten you, gentlemen,” he said, “but
I saw you from a distant tree-top and guessed you were the ones I had to meet
here. My name is Morgyn. “Morgyn the Mighty!” muttered Doctor Tennant, who had
heard of this remarkable person. “The strongest man in the world.” Morgyn
shrugged his enormous shoulders. His only garment was a leopard skin, and he
was barefooted. “That remains to be proved,” he murmured. “Am I right in
guessing that you are the other five men who received a call to come here to
Manaos?” “Yes, and the same happened to you?” asked Miles Greet, getting over
the shock of this sudden appearance. “It did,” said Morgyn. “I was 500 miles
north of here, in the Venezuelan jungle, when the call came to me. I have
obeyed it out of curiosity. Have you yet learned why we’ve been brought
together?” They shook their heads. “That is what we are waiting to hear,”
growled MacDonald. “Now that you have come we should not have to wait long.
I’ve a feeling that whoever is responsible for this business knows everything
that we do. He will know that the six of us are together.